


Words I Never Said

by TheRedMenace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: As the Good Cap Says: Language!, Brief Mention of Bucky's Time with Hydra, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Has Anger Issues, Bucky is a Classics Nerd, Bucky's complicated feelings about Carters, Captain America: The First Avenger, Codependency, Drunken Flow of Consciousness, Epistolary, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Self-Hatred, This Is Not The Happy Ending You Were Looking For, Unreliable Narrator, hopeless bitter resignation, the Author Needs a Hug, the Blind Leading the Blind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedMenace/pseuds/TheRedMenace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Bucky Barnes has written letters to Steve Rogers that he never sent.  All his life, Bucky has burned his secrets to ash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 26, 1925

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Thirteen Letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2689091) by [dropdeaddream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dropdeaddream/pseuds/dropdeaddream), [WhatAreFears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatAreFears/pseuds/WhatAreFears). 



My name is Bucky Barnes and I am eight years old.

 

_~~Bucky I don’t think you can use nicknames on real contracts~~ _

_~~Ugh but Steeeeeve~~ _

_~~No Buck, we gotta do this right or it ain’t legal~~ _

_~~Fine~~ _

 

My name is James Buchanan Barnes and I am eight years old.

 

My name is Steven Grant Rogers and I am ~~almost eight~~ years old. 

 

_~~That ain’t right Stevie you gotta use your real age~~ _

_~~Almost eight is my real age, Buck!~~ _

_~~Not on official stuff!  Or it ain’t legal!~~ _

_~~You are such a jerk.~~ _

 

My name is Steven Grant Rogers and I am seven years old ~~and Bucky is a big fat jerk~~

 

And we promise to always be best friends ~~till the end of the line~~

 

_~~Bucky you can’t use train conductor talk on official stuff~~ _

_~~I can when I’m gonna be a train conductor~~ _

_~~I don’t think that’s how it works~~ _

_~~Shut up and sign the contract, punk~~ _

_~~Jerk~~ _

 

**James Buchanan Barnes**

**Steven Grant Rogers**

* * *

 

 

Barnes, James B.  Letter to Steven G. Rogers.  26 April 1925.  MS.  Rebecca Barnes Proctor Papers.  Smithsonian Museum Archives, Washington, D.C.

\---

Note from Rebecca Barnes Proctor:  _Steve and Bucky were sent to the principal’s office for failing to pay attention in class.  When he asked them to explain themselves, Bucky said they were in the middle of something important, and presented their friendship contract as proof.  Bucky gave the contract to our mother for safe keeping, because as he said, “Ain’t no scrap of paper that’s safe around Stevie.  He’ll doodle all over it if he gets half a chance, and a contract ain’t proper and legal if it’s got half of Brooklyn drawn on it.”_

\---

Here we may observe the beginnings of the friendship that would define Rogers’ and Barnes’ later exploits.  Steve Rogers met Bucky Barnes at St. Ann Church in Brooklyn, where they both served as altar boys.  They became fast friends, as evidenced by the “friendship contract” to the left; a friendship that would famously last until both men lost their lives at the end of the second World War. 

Note the use of “till the end of the line,” a phrase which reappears in later letters sent while Barnes was deployed.  Though few of these letters have survived [most were lost when Barnes was captured by German forces in Italy; corresponding letters in Rogers’ possession were claimed by Howard Stark after Rogers’ death and most have not been released to the public], the reoccurring use of the phrase is indicative of what we must assume was a deeply meaningful promise to both men.


	2. December 4, 1930

Dear Stevie—

 

Ma says I ain’t allowed to come see you, on account of you still being real sick.  That seems wrong to me; if you were still so bad off, the doctors wouldn’t have let you out of the hospital, would they?  I’ve been reading some of Dr. Burke’s books [he always brings me a new one when he comes to see you], and they say pneumonia’s real catching.  So if you were still contagious, they wouldn’t have let you come home.  Since they did, I don’t see why I can’t come keep you company for a while.

 

Besides, you’re always real tired and grouchy after you see doctors, and somebody’s gotta sweet talk you back into a good humor before your Ma starts to worry.  Since nobody’ll let me come see you, I guess this letter will have to do.

 

~~At least till Ma’s not looking, then maybe I can sneak out and come see you anyways.~~

 

Nobody’ll tell me anything about how you’re doing, which is how I know it’s serious.  Your ma stopped by our place this morning.  She looks real tired; you must not have slept last night for coughing.  Ma lent her some onions; I bet Mrs. Rogers’ gonna make up that poultice you hate so much.  You really ought to stop complaining about it though, you know it helps.  At least for a while.

 

I really do think they should let me come see you, Stevie.  I can cook up onions and hold you up over a bowl of hot water just as well as Mrs. Rogers.  And I’m stronger than she is, now; when the phlegm gets caught in your lungs I can knock it loose easier than she can.  Besides, if I’m gonna be a doctor someday, I’ve gotta get experience somehow, right?  Who better than my best patient?  [Okay, you’ll actually be my worst patient.  You are the worst sick person ever, Stevie.]

 

It’s not right to keep a guy from his best friend. 

 

You know what, Stevie?  I ain’t waiting to finish this letter.  Ma won’t notice if I run down the block real quick.

 

* * *

_Several hours later—_

* * *

 

Now you listen to me, Steven Grant Rogers.  I know your hearing ain’t the best, but I sat on your good side and I know you can hear me in that oversized head of yours even when you’re lost in fever, so pay attention.

 

You are not allowed to die on me, you understand?  We signed a contract.  End of the line, remember?  We ain’t hit the last station yet; ain’t even close.  So don’t you **dare** die on me.

 

I stand by what I said earlier.  You can’t be as bad off as all that if the doctors let you leave.  So we gotta make your body understand that.  I will pound every bit of phlegm outta your rickety body if I have to, coz I ain’t letting you die on me.

 

Fight, okay?  You gotta fight, Stevie.  You fight every last thing you lay eyes on, you damn stubborn bastard, so you gotta fight this too.  I’m right there with you, like always, just…  I can’t finish this fight if you don’t start it.

 

Please?

 


	3. July 5, 1933

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's at this point, dear readers, that I need to tell you to start paying attention to the tags, as they will continue to be updated with most [if not all] subsequent chapters. Bucky's head is not a happy place.

 

I think I’m gonna go to hell, Stevie.

I shouldn’t be confessing this to anyone; not to God, not you, certainly not this paper.  If it weren’t for the fact that I’m gonna burn it as soon as I’m done, I wouldn’t be writing this down or even bringing it into the light of day.  [Or night, as the case may be.]

 

But I gotta say it, at least once.  It’s why Sister Monica tells us to write our thoughts down, isn’t it?  So they stop being so _big_ , like they might rip us apart if we don’t get them out of our heads?  And maybe if I write this down, I can make it stop.  Or at least make it stop hurting.

 

I know I’m not supposed to have these thoughts about you.  Father Mahoney says so, and the Bible says it too:  it’s an abomination and a sin, a shameful thing, and it turns you against God.

 

But didn’t God make everything about me?  Why would He put this in me if it was evil?

 

Didn’t David love Jonathan more than any of his wives?  Didn’t Jesus love John?  If it was alright for them, why not for me?

 

I know I shouldn’t feel like this.  I know what people say about guys like me:  queer, fairies, inverts.  Unnatural, broken, wrong.  And maybe they’re right; love shouldn’t hurt this much.

 

Love.

 

I think I’ve always loved you.  And at first, I think it was the right kind of love; innocent, like brothers.  _Philia_ , the Greeks called it.  They said it was the best and most noble kind.

 

I swear, I’ve tried not to love you like _this_.  I’ve tried so hard to keep it where it belongs – loving you like a brother, like my best friend.  But hell, maybe there is something wrong with me, broken, because I don’t love you like that now.

 

The Greeks called it _eros_.  It was a form of madness and I gotta say, I can see their point.

 

I _ache_ for you.  You understand that?  I’m greedy for you; I want to pull you into my ribcage so I can keep you safe, all for myself.  Merge you into my soul.  This burns in my chest like it’s going to eat me alive, and I have no idea how to stop.

 

And I know, I know I deserve to burn for this.  God hates fags and sodomites go to the Devil.

 

But how can I not love you?  You’re _Steve_.

 

We sat up on the roof last night, you and me.  Your ma was pulling another double shift at the hospital, so I took you up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks for your birthday.  And we sat on top of the world, watching the sparklers dance with the stars, and it was like I was just seeing you for the first time.  The way the fireworks lit up your face, like one of those Renaissance paintings you’re always going on about. 

 

I couldn’t breathe.

 

You’re fuckin’ beautiful, Stevie.  Those fucking _eyes_ , so big in your face and so full of fire and fury.  And that nose you hate so much, big and twice-broken; Caesars had noses like that.  But none of them had a mouth like you.

 

I wanted to kiss you.  I’ve kissed girls before, and I liked that just fine.  I don’t think kissing you would be like that; a fighter like you ain’t going to be soft and sweet.  But maybe kissing you would make you understand how I’m burning up inside.

 

Dear God, please make this stop.  I promise, I won’t tell him.  I won’t tell anybody.  I’ll burn this letter to ash, I’ll kill this wrongness in me, and I’ll try to love him like I’m supposed to.  I promise, I won’t foul him with this; he’ll stay good and clean and right with the world.  Just make it stop hurting.


	4. November 22, 1940

Hand to God, Steve, sometimes I have no idea what to do with you.

 

I know you’ve been mad at the world since your Ma passed, God rest her soul.  Seems like that chip on your shoulder only gets bigger as time goes by, and every fight you throw yourself in only makes it worse.

 

You can’t fix the whole damn world by yourself, and you’re gonna kill yourself trying.

 

And what the hell do you think your Ma’s gonna do if you get yourself killed in a back alley?  She’s gonna box your ears, and then she’s gonna come down here and kick my ass for letting you get yourself killed.  I’ll always stand by you, Stevie, but your Ma was a terrifying woman and I’d rather not have her come down from Heaven to give me the what-for.

 

It’s quiet up here on the roof of our building, despite the cold and the fact that Brooklyn’s never actually quiet; peaceful, in a way you never will be.  You damn drama queen.  I know you aren’t actually sleeping, even if you did storm off to bed and slam the door behind you.  I know you’ll still be awake when I go downstairs, and you’ll stew until I find a way to pull you out of it.  Which I will.  Eventually.  When my fingers freeze enough that I can’t feel how sore my knuckles are.

 

I know something’s bothering you.  More than the Sullivans disrespecting Maggie Jameson, though I guess that was as good a way as any for you to blow off some of that steam.  So what set you off this time?  Madder than a cat on a hot tin roof, you were.  And the date was going so well, too, till you got moody and chased Sally May off.

 

Is this all because I made you come to the Van Wyck again?  I didn’t even make you dance this time.  Left you and Sally May nice and cozy in the corner while I made time with Mary on the floor, like the good friend I am, and by the time I get back you’re spitting piss and vinegar and Sally May’s off dancing with somebody else.

 

That ain’t no way to treat a lady, Rogers.  Usually they like to feel like you’re at least a little interested in them.

 

I know you keep saying girls aren’t interested in you.  But that’s just being pessimistic.  Who wouldn’t be interested in you?  You’re an artist.  Girls love artistic types.  Offer to draw ‘em, you’ll have them all eating out of your hand.  Besides, wouldn’t drawing a pretty girl be more fun than making another sketch of me?

 

Be a damn sight more fun than getting punched in an alley.  Again.  S’all I’m saying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know what put Steve in such a rotten mood, then congratulations, you are more intelligent than Bucky Barnes.


	5. June 14, 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now in Movie Time. The next several letters were all written during or between Cap movies. This one was written the night of the Stark Expo, before Bucky shipped out to England.

For the love of God, Steve, please don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.

 

I mean it.  I know you and how quick you can get yourself in trouble.  Don’t do it.

 

I know I tell you this every time I head back from leave, and I know you’re sick of hearing it, but…  I need you safe, punk.  I need to know you’re safe at home, far away from this war that’s gonna destroy the world.  This isn’t a game, Steve.  It’s not getting licked in a Brooklyn alley.  War is not something good and glorious.  I’ve killed men, and I’ve watched good men die.  There’s blood on my hands that’s never coming off, and I can’t let that happen to you no matter how much you think you have to do your part for God and country.

 

Do your part by remembering to eat, for once.  I swear you’re skin and bones.  Have you not been visiting my mother?  I told you, go eat dinners with Ma and the girls, let them coddle you a bit.  God knows you need it.

 

Do your part by painting those war posters.  Do it by writing me, sending me those pin-up sketches you’ve gotten so good at [told you it’d be more fun than drawing me].  Draw Brooklyn for me, Stevie – Mr. Jefferson reading his papers out on the porch, the old guys outside the grocer’s playing checkers and dominoes, the Irish mamas coming home from work.  Draw me the Brooklyn Bridge and Central Park. 

 

Imagine the Grand Canyon for us.  When I come back after it’s all over, let’s just buy a car and drive out to see it.  I’ll bet it’s really something out there; just desert and a huge sky filled with stars.  When are we ever gonna see stars in Brooklyn?

 

No more falsifying your papers, Steve.  Promise me.  Stop trying to get yourself killed.  It’s not the end of the line, yet.

 

 


	6. November 6, 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was written upon Captain America’s return to base camp with the rescued 107th. Bucky’s had a couple of days to stew over this new Steve and he has some things to say.

 

Jesus fucking goddamn Mary Christmas, you fucking dumbass **punk** , what the _fuck_ did I tell you?

 

Did I or did I not tell you not to do anything stupid before I got home??

 

DO YOU NOT CONSIDER TURNING YOURSELF INTO A LAB RAT TO BE “SOMETHING STUPID”?!?

 

**BECOMING A SCIENCE EXPERIMENT COUNTS AS SOMETHING STUPID, YOU STUPID FUCKING MORON.**

 

Jesus Christ, Steve.  What the fuck did you _do_?


	7. January 1, 1944

 

I knew this day would come.

 

I always told you so, didn’t I?  That someday, some lucky lady would see the real you, and she’d love you for it?

 

Agent Carter really seems like something, Stevie.  Just the kind of woman you need – beautiful, smart, doesn’t put up with any of your bullshit.

 

And I swear, I’m gonna be happy for you tomorrow morning.

 

I promise I’ll smile, and tease you until you tell me all the details of kissing her at the New Year’s party while you left me to suffer through Dum Dum, three sheets to the wind and trying to sing Old Lang Syne [I think my ears are bleeding].  I swear I’ll clap you on the back and laugh, and I might even mean it when I tell you I’m happy for you.

 

Tomorrow.

 

Tonight, I’m gonna sit here and wait for this bottle of scotch to catch up with me [thanks, Stark], and I’m gonna wrestle with this until it goes away again.

 

I always knew this day was coming.

 

There’s a dark, horrible part of me that wanted to keep you away from the world.  That wanted to be the only one who ever saw how fucking bright you shine.  That’s wrong of me, to want to keep you for myself when it’s so damn clear that you belong to the world and the ages.  You’ve never been for me.  I’ve always known that.  I promised God years ago that I’d kill that darkness in me.  And for years, I thought I had.

 

Then along comes Peggy **fucking** Carter, smiling at you like she owns you, like she _knows_ you.  And that evil inside me flared up just as hot and bright as it’s ever been.

 

You’ve never been for me.  But you could be hers.

 

And I swear to God, I’m happy for you.  Or I will be, tomorrow.  You deserve her, Steve.  You deserve someone who sees you, not just the spangly uniform.  And I really think she does; I bet she saw you even when you were still your proper size.  And that’s why I’m gonna give you my blessing, because you deserve all the happiness the world can muster for you, and I think that’ll be her.

 

Just don’t ask me to do it tonight.

 

I always knew this day was coming.  I’ve spent years preparing for this.  There was always gonna come a day when the right kind of love came along for you.  I swear I’ve always known that, and I’ve been steeling myself for it.  Can’t miss something you never had, right? 

 

And what the fuck kind of life did I even think we could have, anyways?  Two confirmed bachelors forever, growing old together in our little shoebox apartment?  That was never in the cards, and I know that.  You deserve a normal life; a family, a house.  Perfect little life.  I was never gonna be able to give you that, even before this war swallowed me whole.

 

Just give me tonight.  Let me have a night to get myself back together, to remember what I promised God.  I swear I won’t ruin it.  Just let me have tonight to figure out how to let you go, how to step back and let someone else love you.

 

When tonight’s over, I promise I’ll burn this letter, like I always do, and I’ll burn the wrongness out of me with it.  And tomorrow it’ll all be quiet, and I’ll smile for you.

 

Just… give me these last few hours, first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Confirmed bachelor” is a Victorian euphemism for a gay man.  I have this headcanon that Bucky the Classics nerd read a lot of Gothic literature on the sly [especially The Picture of Dorian Gray], much of which has subtle or overt homoerotic undertones.


	8. February 17, 1944

God damn you, Steve.

 

I used to be good at this, you know.  Ignoring it.  Usually, I don’t even feel these things I carry in my secret spaces.  They lay quiet and calm, and I got so good at pretending that sometimes I even believed that we were just brothers.  And then you go and smile, or lay a hand on my shoulder and stare at me like you're trying to read all my secrets from the tension in my muscles, and it flares up again, hot and bright enough that I'm sure you must see it.  Surely everyone must see the way I moon after you, you goddamned idiot; at least until I can fight it down and lock it away again.

 

Usually, it really is enough to be next to you again – this strange new body of yours, so foreign but still _you_.  I can mostly forget everything, except watching your six, being the only person who remembers Before.  It’s usually enough, just to have you there, close enough to touch, to be sure you’re not a dream.

 

I’ll never tell you this, but I used to dream of you, in the cages.  On the table.  When they were shooting me up with flames and ice and pain, when I was out of my mind with it all, I would dream of you.  Every time they filled a new syringe, I’d slip away and find you in my head.  Bloody and furious.  Sleeping calm and easy, huddled up for body warmth and loving the excuse to pull you in just a little closer.  Laughing.  That wrinkle between your eyebrows, the one you get when you’re so lost in your art that the world disappears.  The taste of your mouth, the sound of your sighs.  Whispering all my secrets to you in the dark while you slept, and pretending to sleep while you whispered them back to me.  Memories and dreams and wishes, all mixed up together until I couldn’t remember what was real and what wasn’t.  Maybe it was all real; maybe I dreamed it all up.  Didn’t matter then, nor now.

 

And then you came.  I swear to God, I thought I was still dreaming when I saw you.  Or maybe it was a nightmare.  I never wanted you near any of this.  You were supposed to remain pure and clean and whole.  That was our deal, me and the Almighty.

 

If He broke His side of the deal, does that mean I can break mine?

 

I’m going to Hell anyways.  Why not give myself this one thing.

 

I’ve been fighting this for years, you know.  Fuck, maybe my whole damn pathetic life.  I fought and struggled against this, tried to kill it every damn day, but I think I’m killing myself instead.   And that’s just fine for me; I’m a dead man either way.  Long as you stay clean, what does it matter?

 

But if I’m already damned – and the things I’ve done in this war, the things I’ve done for _you_ , there’s no coming back from that – why deny myself one more sin, when it’s the only sin I want to commit forever?

 

Believe me, there’s no pleasure in it.  This _ache_ , the burning… this ain’t pleasure, that’s for damn sure.  Who the fuck would willingly put themselves through this?

 

But I can’t fight it, I can’t put it down.  It’s too much a part of me, now.

 

Why the fuck else would I have followed you back into Hell, after they offered to send me home?

 

Practice run, I guess.  There’ll be an eternity of this for me; might as well spend some of it with you.  Even though I will never let it touch you.  You’ll get out of this war, you hear me?  You will get out, and you’ll marry Peggy, and you’ll have the life you’ve always deserved.

 

It’s enough for me, if I can get that for you.  Knowing you’re happy, that’ll make all of this burning worth it.


	9. March 1, 1945

 

I didn’t mean to wake you up.  You need your sleep; we have a big op coming up and you need to be ready for it.  We have a train to catch, and a little rat of a scientist to capture.  It’s gonna be risky, and you’ve gotta be on top of your game to pull it off.  You don’t need to wake up to take care of my nightmares.

 

There’s things you don’t need to see, Stevie.  Things I never want you to see in me.

 

There’s a darkness in me. 

 

It’s been there since we were kids, when I got so pissed off whenever you got beat up that I had to wade in and run off whoever had been stupid enough to get a swing in at you.

 

Then we grew up, and this _sickness_ in me took hold.  And no matter how hard I fought it, it _wanted_.  _I_ wanted.  The sickness kept reaching for you, and I wasn’t strong enough to keep it from touching you.  You can’t be my brother; no one ever wanted their brother the way I want you.

 

You’re a part of me now, in the worst way.  I breathe your scent in like cigarette smoke, and I feel you buzzing in my veins.  I count my heartbeats to the sound of your pulse.  You’re in my head, fighting back the monster that’s trying to eat its way out; you’re the clean part of me, if there’s a part left to save.

 

You remember history class, with Mr. Andrews?  You used to love hearing about all the old heroes; the warriors and conquerors who changed the world.  Did you always know you’d become one of them?  Are you one of them, reborn because the world needed you again?

 

Anyways, your favorite was Alexander the Great, remember?  And I always thought that was fitting.  I used to imagine it all out so clearly – tiny, scrappy Alexander, fists flailing and scowling like a Fury and saying, “Hey, let’s go fight that thing over there cause it looked at us funny!”  And beleaguered Hephaestion chasing after him, trying to pull him back or at least wait until the fucking cavalry had showed up, you idiot.

 

Closer than brothers, Alexander and Hephaestion.  Aristotle used to say they were one soul in two bodies.  Alexander said, “Hephaestion is Alexander.”  I used to like that; I dreamed of being one with you.

 

I’m not sure that’s such a good thing, now.

 

There’s a darkness in me now, Steve.  Something I don’t ever want you to see.  This war, it’s turning me into something ugly.  I want so badly to blame whatever it was they shot into me on that damn table, but…  I think it’s just me.  I think my ugliness is finally eating me up, and soon there’ll be nothing left.

 

There are worse fates than dying for you.

 

And when it does consume me, I don’t want you anywhere near me.  I promised to keep you clean, and I swear I’m going to.  Even if that means letting you go, so you don’t ever see just what I’m becoming.

 

But I know, I _know_ that when I let you go, there’ll be nothing left to stop me from turning into that monster I feel stirring in the back of my mind.  You’re the light, Steve; you’re my goodness.  I let that go?  There’ll be nothing left to keep me from becoming something even more ugly than I already am.

 

There’s no point in saving me for myself; the fuck am I without you there?  The only reason to fight this darkness back is so I can stay with you, keep you safe.

 

But I gotta let you go.  You have a life, now; you have a future.  The war’s gonna end, we all know that.  And when it’s over, you’ll have Peggy waiting for you.  A whole bright beautiful future, and I’ve got no part in that.  I want that for you.  You deserve that, a life free of shadows.

 

Maybe it’d be easier to give in to the dark.  Maybe that would hurt less than carrying this burning in my chest.

 

How can someone as good as you cause me so much hurt?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re following the dates at home, you might recognize this letter as being written two days before Bucky falls from that damn train [online sources vary, but the dates are typically listed as either being March 3 or sometime in early January, 1945].  Now usually, I ignore both of those potential dates; generally I fall in line with Domenika Marzione’s excellent meta positing that Steve’s fall must have happened 6-9 months after Bucky’s.  However, for this fic I wanted the letter dates to generally fall in line with MCU’s timeline.


	10. May 3, 2014

 

I remember you.

 

Why do I remember you?

 

Who are you?

 

I know your name.

 

I remember you.

 

Why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the modern age, dear readers.  This letter was written approximately one month after the events of Cap 2: AW HELL NAW [I accept no other title, unless it be Cap 2: Up All Night To Get Bucky].  One month out of cryo, and he’s already back to writing Steve love letters.  I can’t even with Bucky, y’all.


	11. August 15, 2015

 

There is a familiarity in writing to you like this.  Secret, scattered thoughts on paper, pretending I am speaking to you.  I think I once confessed many secrets to you, before burning every secret to ash.

 

I think this letter, I will keep.  It seems stupid to destroy memories, after fighting so hard to regain them and then fighting again to keep them.

 

These days, writing thoughts down is the only way they remain permanent.    I… forget.  Easily.   It is difficult to follow a thought to completion; harder to recall an idea once it has been thought.  Research and recall indicate that this is due to repeated electroshock and brainwashing.  HYDRA did not want a thinking weapon.  But something kept repairing thought and memory, almost as soon as it could be destroyed.

 

It is… hard, without the Chair.  There was pain, but also… clarity.  I miss that.  The silence in my head, after a wipe.  It was simple, then, to get through a mission.  Now I feel… crowded.  There are too many shards of thought in my head, too many distracting whispers and images.  I do not know if I can trust any of them.  I do not know how many are real, how many are gifts from HYDRA.

 

I write them all down.  I hope to eventually track down enough research to be able to distinguish what is real.

 

I remember you.  I know your name, your code name.  I researched you:  in libraries, in museums, online.  Most of it is clearly propaganda; much is speculation and assumption.  Some of it sparks more images, things I cannot easily identify as true – the light of a campfire on your face, watching your hands sketch a map and wishing you were drawing _something_ else, seeing a wrinkle between your brows and wanting to smooth it away.

 

Thinking of you makes my chest hurt.  An ache, as though I had been kicked in the sternum, though no one is around to touch me.  Something twists and constricts beneath my ribcage, even though I am not injured or impaired.

 

I should be concerned by this; an ache like this could indicate a mission-endangering injury that must be attended immediately before returning to the field.  But the same shards of thought that give me the ache tell me that this is a pain I was once very familiar with.  It is not an injury, and it will pass.

 

I dream of you, Steve Rogers.  When I manage to sleep, I dream.  Often I see the people I have killed; sometimes I dream of needles, restraints, the Chair, training.  But sometimes, I dream of you.  I do not know if these dreams are memories.  Are dreams ever real?  But I dream of you, and sometimes the nightmares cease.

 

I dream of sitting with you on the precipice of a canyon.  The air is warm and dry, and we sit beside a campfire.  There are stars in the sky, and we throw pebbles into the canyon, counting the seconds until we hear a faint _plop_ as the stones hit the river.

 

Research indicates that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were born and lived in New York.  There are no canyons in New York.  Is this a planted suggestion from HYDRA?  Why would they want me to sit and throw rocks down a canyon with you?  If ever I am able to see you again, perhaps we should not be near any canyons.

 

I do not know why I persist in writing to you like this.  The shards of memory that may be my former self indicate that you never received any of the letters I may have written.  They were all burned upon completion.  I do not remember the purpose of this ritual.  What secrets could my former self possibly have that were unsafe for you to see?

 

Research indicates that James Buchanan Barnes was Catholic.  The Papists have a tradition of Confession; a belief that telling one’s sins to a priest somehow grants forgiveneness for wrongs committed.  This is clearly the naïve hope of imbeciles, as there is no greater force in the universe who cares for the actions of men.

 

But I would confess to you anyways, Steve Rogers.

 

I have killed.  I do not know how many people, but I know my hands will never be clean of blood.

 

I have lied.  I have cheated.  I have held hatred in my heart.  I have served the worst kind of evil.

 

I do not remember who I am.

 

There are shards in my head.  Slivers of memories, images that may be truth or lie.  I do not know which is which.

 

There is something in me that wants to pick and choose what I want to be truth, even if it is fiction.  I think this force wants to turn me into something better than what I am.  This force tries to group shards together, to form them into a shape that may be James Barnes.

 

I think you are the glue holding the shards together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This letter exists because of Sebastian Stan and the goddamn Backpack of Sadness.  
> 
> We're now post-Avengers 2: WTF Did You Just Do [I accept no other title]. While Steve is training the New Avengers at the upstate compound, Bucky is probably somewhere in Eastern Europe, keeping his head down [and trying to get his head on straight].


	12. May 7, 2016

 

In a bit, I’m gonna have to go find you and calm you down.  You’re gonna scare people, mad as you are right now.  And Sam might be good, I might like him, but it looks like he hasn’t figured out how to deal with you when you’re this pissed.  So I’ll have to do it.

 

One more miracle, before I sleep.

 

I know you’re pissed at me, for wanting to go back under.  Oh I know, you said you understood.  Liar.  I don’t have all my marbles, but I remember that pinched look you get around your eyes when you’re upset.

 

I’ll bet you see this as a betrayal.  The one person left to you from the Good Ol’ Days, abandoning you.  And when you just got me back, too.

 

Drama queen.

 

Truth is, Stevie…  I can’t be that Bucky you remember.  Fuck, I barely remember who that guy is.  There are still so many holes in my memory, so many dark spots…  And I still haven’t figured out what thoughts are me, and what’s HYDRA.  I can’t put you at risk like that.  Fuck, I’ve almost killed you three times now.  The Bucky you remember would never hurt you, and I can’t even control myself when someone speaks old triggers.

 

Who the fuck am I if I can’t protect you?

 

I want to be the guy you remember, I swear I do.  Why the fuck do you think I’m doing this?  You think I _like_ cryostasis?

 

…

 

Okay, fine.

 

Yes.  I missed cryo.  You don’t know what it’s like, to finally have quiet in your head after constant assault from outside and inside.  I miss that.  I miss knowing nothing except the mission.

 

And I’m giving up that quiet for you.  While I’m under, the doctors swear they can fix me.  They can make me your Bucky again.  Isn’t that better than… whoever the fuck I am right now?  Don’t you want your Bucky back?  I’m not him right now, but maybe I can be.

 

Right now, I ain’t the James Buchanan Barnes you knew.  But maybe I can be, again.  If I do this.

 

Whoever I am right now, there’s one thing about me that has always been the same.

 

There’s you.  So I remain.

 

No matter who I have been or am or will become, so long as you are on this earth, I will always come back to you.  There is no version of me that isn’t yours.  Hephaestion is Alexander; Alexander is Hephaestion.  No matter how hard HYDRA tried, they couldn’t take that from me.

 

Stop looking at me like this is goodbye, punk.  Haven’t we always found our way back to each other?

 

I promised you the end of the line.  Believe it or not, after three lifetimes we still ain’t there yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was obviously written just before Bucky went into cryo in Wakanda at the end of Cap 3: I WAS NOT PREPARED [I accept no other title]. I imagine he entrusted the Backpack of Sadness to T'Challa, in exchange for those completely unnecessary skintight scrubs.


	13. September 19, 2019

I always knew this day would come.

 

I’m pretty sure I wrote that, in another life.  About another Carter, to boot.

 

Seriously Steve, what is it with you and Carters?  I’m a little uncomfortable and I’m only kidding a little bit.  Seriously, it’s weird.

 

I may be a little not sober right now.  Whatever, it was your bachelor’s party tonight, that’s expected.

 

Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to get drunk?

 

Natalia’s vodka stash may never recover.

 

I’m pretty sure even Stark would be impressed.

 

STARK.

 

What was I talking about?

 

Right.  Carter.  The blonde one.  It’s weird, Stevie.

 

Once upon a fucking long time ago, I’m pretty sure I told you (or Letter You, which is the same thing I think) I promised I’d be happy for you.  Coz Peggy was everything you deserved – beautiful, smart, a pistol, a woman (the _woman_ part is important.  Or it was, once.  The modern age is confusing.).

 

Not exactly sure Sharon’s a pistol.  Water gun, maybe.

 

I know, I know.  _Be nice, Bucky.  She’s had a lot to live up to, big shoes to fill, big shadow she grew up in._   Sure.

 

You can do better.

 

Oh, I’m sorry.  I was I not supposed to say that?  Was I supposed to be happy?

 

Fuck you, Steve.  My hearing is starting to tunnel.  You know how weird that is, to be able to focus on nothing but fucking Ke$ha (Goddamnit Sam, what the fucking hell)?  It’s weird.  I can’t be held responsible for anything I say right now, I’m drunk.  It’s liberating.  You should try it.  I’m sure Asgardian mead would do the trick, ask Thor for some.

 

I’m not happy.  Is that what you wanted to hear?  Fuck you.

 

You’re getting married to the WRONG CARTER.  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU SHE’S PEGGY’S GODDAMN **NIECE.**   It’s weird.  Six shades of Freudian wrong.

 

I’m quoting Lewis, I think.   Or Clint?  Maybe both?  Whatever, they’re right.

 

I had a point.  Somewhere.  At some point.  I think.

 

Oh.  Right.  Happy.  As in, I am not.  So very, very not.

 

Why the fucking _hell_ are you settling for Sharon?  I’m serious.  Dead serious (or Sirius, as the case may be.  Fuck, that was awful – wait.  GODDAMNIT LEWIS GET OUT OF MY HEAD WITH YOUR FANGIRLING THIS IS NOT THE TIME I AM TRYING TO PROVE A POINT TO STEVIE).  Why the hell are you interested in her?  She’s a former SHIELD agent – need I remind you, the ORGANIZATION PEGGY FOUNDED, YOU SICK FUCK – who was HYDRA or at least SHIELDRA and spying on you and lied to you.

 

Yes, I was HYDRA (actual, full HYDRA, no SHIELD involved, thank you very much) and spied and lied on you too.  Fucking shut up, that’s different.

 

Shut up!

 

Because I was evil, that’s why.

 

I can sense the eye-pinching from here.  Like Spider-dude.  Fuck off.  I was.  Evil, I mean.  I was evil and no amount of Patriotic Disapproving Eyebrow Frown will change that.  I was a Bad Guy (TM).  It was awesome.

 

Maybe not awesome.

 

Maybe sucky.

 

A lot sucky.

 

Pretty sure there was rape and brainwashing in there somewhere.  And a judicious application or fifty of “Captain Rogers is dead, your Howling Commandos are disbanded, Agent Carter always hated you, no one is coming to save you because Steve is dead and left you alone.”

 

Pretty sure I promised myself never to tell you any of that.  Whatever.  Burning this when I’m done with it as per the rules, so it doesn’t matter what I say.

 

I had a point somewhere.

 

I forget.

 

I remember!  Ha!  Go me!  Score one point, Barnes!

 

Moving on.  There was a point here.

 

Sharon is Peggy’s niece.  That’s weird.  Are you trying to recapture your lost youth?  Because I’m pretty sure we don’t count the Frozen Years (trademarked to Darcy Lewis Stark, circa two thousand something.  Shut up years are hard right now.  Everything’s fuzzy.  The fuck was in that vodka, Nat?  YOU DRUGGED ME, DIDN’T YOU.  YOU ARE A WIZARD AND HAVE VERITASERUM GODDAMNIT.  Stop laughing Clint.  Scrambled Egg Brain Bros are supposed to stick together, goddamnit.)

 

You have never gone for blondes.  Why are you going for a blonde now?  Are you looking for a vagina’d version of yourself?  Trust me buddy, you don’t want a lady version of you.  You are a confusing pain in the ass, is why.  You deserve better than you.

 

That’s not a transparent plea for Steve to be with me, Mental Lewis.  Go back to your Johnlock meta and leave me alone.  (Or not.  I could do you.  Or not, because Stark would kill me and then resurrect me and and me over to Pepper.  Or worse yet, Howard.  Or take off my arm again.  Bastard.  Anywho, we’re not Johnlock so much as Alexander/Hephaestion [Alextion?].  I’d provide proof, but all those letters got burned up a lot ago.  I’ll recreate them for you, don’t worry.  Very angsty.  Right up your alley.  Howard would love you we’re not talking about Howard coz I killed him and that’s awkward.  Fuck.  Didn’t mean to say that I’M SORRY I WAS HYDRA’D.)

 

Holy shit Barnes, focus.  What the fuck was in that vodka.  Natalia, have you figured out how to engineer a truth serum?  Coz that shit ain’t kosher.

 

Shut up, I can say that.  I was Jewish.  I think.  Pretty sure.  Maybe.

 

Steve.  Was I Jewish?

 

Steve.  Steeeeeeeve.  Why are you marrying Sharon.

 

I mean it.

 

I mean, I got why you wanted to marry Peggy.  I really, truly got that.  It was wartime, she was your future, I totally understood that.  I encouraged that, as I remember.

 

Why the fuck did I encourage that.

 

Right.  1940s.  Gay was not cool.  Wait.  Bisexual.  That’s what Lewis said.  Correct terms, Barnes.  It’s important.  Progress, and all that shit.  Cultural sensitivity.  It’s not wrong anymore.

 

The hell was I saying.

 

Right.  Peggy.

 

You loved Peggy, Steven.  Really, truly loved her.  And for good reason, because she was one hell of a dame.  I get why you wanted to be with her.  She was exactly who I would have wished for you.  _Did_ wish for you, if I remember right – which I think I do do, post-Wakanda miracle working.  Yeah.  I remember right, she was exactly what I wanted for you.

 

But Sharon?

 

What. The. Fuck.

 

Steve.  The fuck are you doing.

 

Is this really what you want?

 

_She_ is really what you want?

 

Okay.

 

Sure.

 

I wonder if Hephaestion hated Roxana.

 

I’m pretty sure -  88% sure – that I once promised you [or the you I confessed to on paper, but whatever it’s all the same thing] that I would be happy.  So yeah, I’ll be happy.  After all the fucking bullshit you’ve been through, you deserve a happily ever after.

 

But are you really going to make me sit through it?

 

God – I mean the actual God, Steve, I’m not just using the word as punctuation – I thought we had a deal about this.  I stop wanting Steve, You make it stop hurting.  It still hurts.  What the actual fuck, Sir.

 

Then again, I hear in 2019 You’re into that now.

 

What the _fuck_ , Omnipotent One.

 

You couldn’t come to this conclusion earlier?

 

I have the hiccups.

 

Not the point.

 

Point is, I want Steve.  I’ve loved Steve since we were kids.  You know that.  And You’re giving him to Sharon?  Fucking _Sharon_?

 

This is why I no longer believe in You.

 

Mostly.

 

I was Catholic, once.  My people might have been Jewish, I’m not sure.  Either way, Sir.  We have history.  And You are failing to uphold Your half of the deal.  The fuck.

 

Dear Steve.  I promise I will be happy for you.  I will be your best man.  I will smile and make speeches and support this match made in Heaven.  (Ha.)

 

Because I love you, goddamn you.  And your happiness is more important to me than anything.

 

That’s probably not healthy.  Pretty sure that’s codependent.  Learned that word from my therapist.

 

Whatever.  You’ve always made more sense to me than I made to myself.  Alexander is Hephaestion.

 

Goddamnit.

 

I can’t do this.

 

I don’t want you to be happy with Sharon.  Be happy with me.

 

Even though I know you won’t.  Because you’re straight, and I’m not, and isn’t that a fucking tragedy.

 

Fuck.

 

I need more vodka.  NATALIA RESCUE ME. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve mentioned before that this entire story was written in one night, while drinking copiously.  This chapter was written at the peak of my inebriation.  Y’know, for authenticity.  I apologize if the drunken flow of consciousness is confusing, or if the rambling makes you dizzy.


	14. September 21, 2019

There.  I did it.  I got through the wedding.  I even smiled.

 

Y’know, last time around I figured I’d be dead before I ever had to watch this.

 

Figures God would make me sit through it.  Punishment for my sins, or something.

 

I knew you’d never be mine.

 

I’m sure you and Sharon will be revoltingly happy together, Steven.

 

Forgive me if I’m not around to see it.

 

I can’t do it.  Haven’t I been through enough?  Do I really have to watch you in happily wedded bliss?  Why?  To remind me you were never mine?  Trust me, I was well aware.  You were never mine, and were never gonna be.  Why the fuck should I have to sit around and watch it?

 

No. Nope.  Nuh-uh.

 

I’m not HYDRA anymore.  No need to torture myself.

 

You deserve to be happy, Steve.  I’ve always known that, just like I’ve always known I was never gonna be the one to make you happy.

 

The world’s changed, Stevie, and you changed with it.  You built a new world, a better one…  But there’s no place in that world for me.

 

There is no reason for me to stay.

 

Clint and Nat will help me get the fuck out of here.  Sam too, probably.  Maybe Hill.  Might even get Stark on board.

 

Wait.  No.  They’ll tell you what they did when you pin them with the “Captain America Is Disappointed In You” glare, and then you’ll come after me like you always do, and then we’ll just get caught in this mess all over again.  And the whole point is to get out of this mess.

 

Wakanda, then.

 

I can’t watch you be happy like this.  It’s what I always wanted for you, but I can’t see it, right now.

 

Maybe never.

 

Probably never.

 

I may be a little drunk again.   Or still.  Fuck off.  I’m allowed.

 

You watch your best friend get married to six shades of Freudian wrong, then get back to me.

 

Yeah.  Thought so.

 

Fuck this.

 

Sometimes I wonder if I don’t hate you a little, Steve. 

 

You don’t know what this feels like; you don’t know what this dark burning is like.  It’s eating me alive, Stevie.  It’s killing me all over again, and it _hurts_.  How can something this awful be love?

 

It’ll be better this way, you’ll see.  Don’t worry, I’ll do something useful.  Like kill HYDRA.  That always makes me feel better, right?  You like things like that.

 

Make the world safer for you and your bride.  That sounds sufficiently noble.  Good cause to die for.

 

Cept, they probably won’t even manage to kill me.

 

Goddamnit.

 

I can probably come up with a better farewell than this. But honestly, I’ve been drinking since like 2:00 yesterday.  Or the day before.  I can’t be held accountable for this.  Either way, sentiment’s the same.

 

Goodbye, Steve.

 

I’ll make up for it all, I promise.

 

I didn’t think the end of the line would look like this.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic was written in one [long, wine-filled] night. I've decided to edit and rewrite it as little as possible - unusual for me, but something happened while writing this story. I'm not sure what that something was, but it's important to me that I present it to you as it is.
> 
> Please keep an eye on the tags [and the relationship tags]; I'll be updating them as they become relevant. Didn't want to pre-tag it all, for fear of spoiling the story.


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